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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950009">treacle, oil lamps, poppies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b'>wildenessat221b</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ghosts (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Backstory, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 02, not v graphic but she do be there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:08:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A pair of beginnings and a few in betweens. </p><p>How The Captain and Havers came to be whatever it was they ended up as.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>treacle, oil lamps, poppies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi friends! </p><p>This is sort of a prequel to my last fic (a soldier can sleep in any warzone) so I would maybe recommend checking that one out if you haven't yet. No obligation though, it will still make sense! </p><p>Thanks for dropping by!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It begins like this.</p><p>He salutes, good and proper, but he does it with his pinkie separated from the rest of his fingers. The Captain wrinkles his nose, and he notices, and he tenses his shoulders and casts a hummingbird-fast self-conscious glance beyond his eyebrow to where his hand still lingers. The pinkie snaps down into place. He clears his throat.</p><p>“Apologies sir, nervous tick.” The hand drops, then he extends it. “Havers, sir. William Havers.”</p><p>The Captain raises a singular eyebrow, then takes the hand and gives it one firm shake. The bones beneath the skin are sharp like a ballerina’s arabesque, the grip like the vice of a lion’s jaw. The Captain nods minutely to himself. He’s always admired a strong handshake.</p><p>“No need for nerves, Havers - at ease. I’m certain my regiment can convince your prodigal pinkie of that in due course.” He releases his grip.</p><p>“Oh, I have no doubt, sir.” He shifts slightly on his feet, then smiles. It is mid-afternoon and his smile matches the sunlight pouring into the office, bright but mellow, softened by a gentle mist.</p><p>There is a rumble then the crunch of gravel outside and the Captain turns to look. He watches as the van begins to splutter its way up the drive away from the house, sending squawking blackbirds scattering.</p><p>“Even if not, you’re stuck with us now.”</p><p>Havers’ gaze joins The Captain’s and he produces a soft half-laugh at the back of his throat.</p><p>“I’m sure I’ll manage.” His voice is like an oil lamp at midnight, the Captain ponders for a split second, before his conscious mind catches up and shoots the thought down like a clay pigeon. He twitches slightly at the noise of the shot and clenches his fists around his cane.</p><p>“Yes, well.” He indicates the door with an incline of his head. “You had best go and learn how to manage. Induction with Rogers, Great Hall, 1600 hours. Seven minutes and counting. Chop-chop."</p><p>The smile drops and his face steels as he salutes again, pinkie in place this time. “Yes sir.”</p><p>His boots squeak on the varnished floor as he turns on his heel, then The Captain is alone again. He lowers himself slowly into his chair and clasps his hands under his chin in a prayer position, knuckles to the sky.</p><p>It begins like this.</p><p>It begins with the snapping down of a pinkie finger like a camera shutter, and like a camera shutter to a photograph, The Captain’s fate is sealed.</p><p>***</p><p>It continues like this.</p><p>The Captain feels that it is important to remain on top form at all times. This includes eating well, exercising often and keeping the old grey cells ticking over.</p><p>For the latter, he favours The Times crossword.</p><p>The East Hall has been converted into a Mess Hall and that is where he sits, coffee to his left, small stack of biscuits to his right and pencil in hand. His brow is furrowed in concentration.</p><p>Parallelogram. Undulation. Trout.</p><p>A creak to his right. He lifts his head.</p><p>“Do you mind, Sir?” The Captain freezes. He lifts his head and the pencil falls out of his hand. It is Havers and he is backlit by frosty sunlight, silhouetted by watchchain gold. He fumbles to pick up the pencil. “The boys over there are discussing women in a manner that…” he squirms slightly, “I can’t claim to be entirely comfortable with.”</p><p>The Captain blinks at him. His shoulders are curled sheepishly and his jaw is sharp. He looks in the direction of a raucous laugh from the opposite table and his top lip wrinkles.</p><p>“Be my guest.” He indicates the seat to his right, as nonchalantly as he can.</p><p>“Thank you, sir.”</p><p>It is silence that follows, because The Captain can no longer concentrate on his crossword. There is no scratching of pencil on paper, the lead hovers nervously above the sheets. The letters blur into one. The Captain finds himself becoming inexplicably hot.</p><p>“Longing.” Havers says suddenly, in a tone uncannily similar to a pin being pulled from a grenade. The Captain drops his pencil again.</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Eleven down, Sir.”</p><p>He looks down. The letters eventually settle.</p><p>
  <em>having or showing a yearning desire</em>
</p><p>“Ah.” He says faintly. “Of course.”</p><p>It continues like this.</p><p>The Captain considers writing a strongly worded letter of complaint to The Times, whose crossword puzzles appear to be becoming more and more fanciful.</p><p>Over the next few weeks, he notices a marked increase in words such as “infatuation.” “Endearment.” “Affection.”</p><p>And heaven bloody forbid.</p><p>“Love.”</p><p>***</p><p>It goes on like this.</p><p>The Captain is strolling the corridors of Button House, boots clicking against the hardwood, and he is frowning. It is 0600 hours and the sun is still down. It is winter and the windows are thick with ice, obscuring the view to the garden.</p><p>The Captain sighs heavily and bends down, knees emitting a loud, omnipresent crack exacerbated by the cold. He picks up half a beer bottle, shark-tooth sharp below where the neck should be, and wrinkles his nose as his eyes narrow in frustration and an exasperated groan sounds at the back of his throat. He shakes his head. Can’t even bloody pick up after themselves.</p><p>Mind already whirring in composition of a severe reprimand, he begins to straighten up, surveying the length of the corridor for more evidence of indecorous behaviour. He squints accusingly at the bottle in his hand when –</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>He startles, turns like a spooked rabbit. The bottle slips, an edge nicks his palm before shattering at his feet.</p><p>A firework of pain, a white-hot flash across his eyes, bile in his throat.</p><p>“Blast…” he spits under his breath, bending forward to curl around his hand. Crimson is pooling on his palm. “Blast and –“</p><p>Fingers seize his forearm. The bones beneath the skin are sharp like a ballerina’s arabesque, the grip like the vice of a lion’s jaw.</p><p>“Gracious Sir, stay still, I do apologise, I –“</p><p>“Havers…” The Captain meets his eyes, for a fraction of a second. They are tiny pools of treacle and trench-deep with concern, and The Captain has to try very hard to convince himself that he imagined the hitch in his breath when their gazes locked. He yanks his arm away. “Not to worry Havers, not to –“ Droplets of blood are splashing onto the varnished floor. “…worry… ah.”</p><p>“Yes sir, ah indeed.” He returns his grip to the arm. “Come with me, let me –“</p><p>“No no, there is absolutely no need for –“ He tries to pull away again, but the grip remains fast.</p><p>“Sir, you’re –“</p><p>“Perfectly aware, thank you,” his voice is high, he is shades away from panicking.</p><p>“Sir, the poor cleaning ladies, you are rather making a mess of the floor.”</p><p>The Captain blinks at the dots of crimson on the wood and tries not to think of poppies. He gulps and sways against a moment of light-headedness, which if Havers feels in the tensing of his tendons, he is courteous enough not to mention.</p><p>“Yes, I am rather aren’t I…” he mutters.</p><p>“Come to my room a moment, I have bandages, I have –“</p><p>“I… have bandages.”</p><p>“Yes sir and an impressive flesh wound, just <em>for pity’s sake</em> –“ He catches himself, not that the Captain had noticed him fall, “Sorry sir, sorry , just… just let me help.”</p><p>He is thinking of poppies and he is thinking of oil lamps at midnight and he is thinking of treacle and it is enough for him to shut his eyes against impending nausea and mumble, “Yes… yes alright.”</p><p>It goes on like this.</p><p>The Captain sits stiffly on Haver’s bed with Havers kneeling in front of him. His touch is feather-light as he winds the bandage around his palm and mutters, “You really must be more careful you know, Sir.”</p><p>His fingertips brush against his wrist and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.</p><p>“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I know I must.”</p><p>***</p><p>It begins, again, like this.</p><p>The Captain and Havers are sitting in The Captain’s office, while a wind howls and shrieks outside. The windows are rattling and the walls chattering, and the sky is as dark and inky as a dead man’s pupil. The Captain shifts his tie up, Havers pulls his jacket closer around his middle.</p><p>“It’s very cold tonight, Sir.”</p><p>His words paint a ghost on the air. It dissipates slowly, stray tendril the last to disappear as though waving goodbye. </p><p>“Yes,” The Captain breathes, “It is.”</p><p>There is an oil lamp in the corner, glowing a soft yellow, and the Captain bites his tongue against telling Havers that it is the colour of his voice. He stands instead and buries his hands deep in his pockets.</p><p>Havers’ eyes are trained on the light. He is staring at it with such intensity that he looks in danger of falling in. The Captain is about to say something to catch him, something about strategy or logistics, or the bloody Germans when –</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“Yes Havers?”</p><p>“Do you ever get lonely here?”</p><p>
  <em>oil lamps and treacle oil lamps and treacle poppies poppies poppies</em>
</p><p>He swallows a mouthful of shrapnel.</p><p>“Yes Havers, I do.”</p><p>Havers nods, slowly. And then he rises, slowly. And then, slowly, he moves until he is inches from the Captain’s face. He is so close that The Captain can hear the trembling quality of his words, feel the breath on his nose.</p><p>“It’s very cold tonight, sir.”</p><p>It begins, again, like this.</p><p>“William?”</p><p>“Yes, sir?”</p><p>“Make sure to lock the door.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading lovelies, a comment would make my heart sing! </p><p>Have a lovely day.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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